||[Aug. 26th, 2007|04:16 pm]
A barely perceptible lessening of the heat is accompanied by the slightest rustling of the leaves as late afternoon brings a soft breeze. The weather might improve. I don't know that anything else will. The dazed cat manages to lap a bit of water, then staggers the few feet back to her hiding spot and conceals herself. She's been out into the room a few times since last night, but it's still a struggle for her. She seldom makes a sound now, but did purr when I brought the fresh bowl of water. She even did a brief bit of grooming of the top of one foreleg last night, but soon gave up and went back to sleep. I haven't slept so easily, or very well.|
I've been wondering if she might have Lyme disease? The area is frequented by deer, and thus by their ticks. We've had deer in the yard as recently as two weeks ago when, late one night, they set the dog next door to growling and then barking. The kitty could very easily have picked up an infected tick without even roaming away from home.
And, as usual, now that I've read about Lyme disease, I'm pretty sure I've got it myself. Stupid hypochondria.
Anyway, dinner to deal with, and I want to spend some time with the cat—even if she's nearly comatose—in case this turns out to have been her last night. Maybe I'll try checking her for ticks.
by Margaret Atwood
The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,
is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.
No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.